


background noise

by erebones



Series: spiritassassin week 2k17 [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, First Meetings, M/M, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 23:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10729170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Chirrut has a popular cooking channel on youtube that garners him millions of views each week, but he has a secret: his favorite channel to listen to is an ambient cooking channel run by an amateur home cook with a gorgeous voice.





	background noise

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [background noise [한국어 번역]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351522) by [tyty_wars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyty_wars/pseuds/tyty_wars)



> For day two of Spiritassassin Week! Baze's yt channel (and the recipes he makes) are all inspired by Peaceful Cuisine on youtube. I could watch those videos forever....

The knife is very sharp. Chirrut can tell by the quick, easy _shuh-shuh_ of the blade moving back and forth, ending in a mellow _tak_ as it slices through the flesh of the fruit and hits the cutting board. It’s wooden, the cutting board, so the sound is easy on the ears, not like the sharp, reverberating smack of Chirrut’s knives against pebbled glass. He likes the louder sound for himself, in his own kitchen. It keeps him alert, lets him read the angle and sharpness of the blade. But when he’s listening to someone else, the softer sound of metal on wood is like a peck on the cheek. Brief, gentle, always a little bit surprising. 

There is no background music—that is Chirrut’s favorite part. Nothing to detract from the simple, elegant sounds of a stranger cooking quietly in his own kitchen. It’s nothing like his own cooking channel, which is full of peppy jazz and his own voice, describing everything in rambling, sometimes tangential detail. This is… quiet. Peaceful. And it never fails to relax him at the end of a busy week. 

If he’s honest, he’s a little bit obsessed. The YouTube channel was a recommendation from Bodhi, who lives in the apartment above his and helps film and post-process his own cooking videos. He’s the youngest tenured professor at the film school down the street, and he’s always got an eye out on the web for up and coming filmmakers. After raving for ten minutes about the cinematography alone, he assured Chirrut that there were other excellent qualities that he would enjoy. 

“They’re just so peaceful,” he says, poking away at his camera while Chirrut tests the edges of his knives with a careful finger. “I fall asleep to them sometimes.”

Chirrut never falls asleep to them. At first he put it on for ambient noise while he meditated, but he soon realized that the sounds coming from the video were just too interesting to let them slide by. Instead he gives them all his focus, and when he’s worked his way through the backlog of videos, he waits eagerly for each new update. 

It’s strangely intimate. _Sometimes I feel as if you are cooking in the next room, just for me_ , he comments on one video. He always leaves feedback under a pseudonym and he isn’t sure why. Perhaps he doesn’t want this man to be intimidated—but that feels arrogant to say, even if he _does_ get millions of views on his cooking videos. Or perhaps he finds the secrecy exciting. 

Bodhi teases him about it, about not using his official handle, but Chirrut brushes him off. He enjoys the anonymity. He can’t really call himself _famous_ by any widespread cultural standards, but there is a level of overstimulation that comes with the territory of being a big name on the internet. The freedom to comment and like things without his every move being monitored and scrutinized is refreshing. 

“It’s a tragedy, you know,” Bodhi tells him. “One of the biggest vegan chefs on the internet is a _fanboy_. You could be bringing tons of traffic to this guy’s channel, but _nooooo_.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m critiquing him,” Chirrut protests, even though he _does_ critique him, constantly and from behind the mask of an fake name. “He seems like the type to get easily discouraged. He even says it in his channel description—he’s an _amateur home cook_ , no schooling, nothing. Just two hands and an internet connection.”

“I think you like him,” Bodhi says slyly. “He’s pretty cute, you know. For an older guy. Nice hands.”

“If I wanted your opinion on his looks I would have asked for it, young man,” Chirrut says tartly, pretending not to be delighted by this news. “And it doesn’t matter how cute he is, or how good he is at making videos—his recipes are absolute shit.”

“But they look so pretty!” Bodhi cries, offended on this stranger’s behalf. 

Chirrut harrumphs and turns back to his prep work. “Doesn’t matter how pretty it is if it’s the consistency of wet cardboard.”

The problem, he concedes, may very well not be with BazeCooks’ techniques, but in the presentation. Chirrut fully admits that his blindness prevents him from getting the full picture, as it were—his only clue to the recipes BazeCooks uses are the sparse notes he puts in the video descriptions. In spite of Chirrut’s best efforts, his work isn’t really the kind one replicates. It’s instinctive, subjective, something you have to feel and smell and taste in the kitchen as you work. The handful of scattered instructions is never enough to recreate the dishes himself. 

_I know the point of these videos is more for the ambiance and the cinematography_ , he types one day, _but I would love a little more direction in how to pursue these recipes for myself. I am curious to try this lemon meringue without egg whites, but I’m a bit lost at how to achieve this._

He doesn’t really expect a response. This man, whoever he is, rarely replies to comments, and when he does it’s usually just a humble _thank you_ in response to the copious amounts of praise he receives. The next morning, however, there _is_ a response—just not from BazeCooks. 

_@thechizen1 he shows the amounts and ingredients and shit int he videos, dumbass_

Chirrut’s audio software stumbles over the typo, and for some reason that on his nerves even more than the rudeness, enough that he fires off a sharp reply. 

_@kyloisawanker I have a visual impairment that prevents me from watching these videos. I put them on for the ambient sounds. Your comment was neither polite nor helpful, and I suggest proofreading what you put up on the Internet before you post._

It isn’t until later that day that his email dings with a new private message. _Hello, I’m sorry about that rude comment you received today. I blocked that user from commenting on my videos. I am generally bad at measuring out everything perfectly, but I will try to be more descriptive in the future. For now, here is the recipe for the lemon meringue tart. It’s adapted from my mother’s recipe. I hope you enjoy. -Baze_

What follows is the recipe, fairly concise and practical, but Chirrut is hardly listening. Even read out in the mechanical voice of his computer, the note from BazeCooks feels like a note from a friend. He files the recipe away for later and listens to the message again in order to formulate his reply. 

The next week, he eagerly copies down the detailed recipe in the video notes and prepares for a nice eight minutes or so of relaxation. BazeCooks is preparing a pumpkin spice latte today, starting from a whole ripe pumpkin and green, unroasted coffee beans, and the intricate process is a delight to his ears—he can almost smell the roasting beans, feel their crunch under his fingers as they’re being ground. He hunches over his computer and puts the volume up to maximum with a little smile. He wonders if BazeCooks is being extra sensory today just for him. 

The end comes far too soon. Chirrut is preparing to restart the video over—embarrassing, yes, but there’s no one here to judge him but his own damn self—when someone clears their throat. He jumps, prepared to fend off whatever intruder has crept into his apartment, when he realizes: the sound came from the video. 

“Hello,” says a deep basso voice, hesitant, gritty and smooth like the coffee grounds used in today’s recipe. “I don’t usually do this, but I’ve received a number of requests for more clarity in my recipes—well, just one request, really.” He gives a soft, self-conscious laugh, and Chirrut melts. “As I’ve said before, I’m no chef, but for those of you who might actually want to _follow_ this recipe, I thought I’d give a few tips.”

He talks for a few minutes, outlining his techniques, but Chirrut isn’t really paying attention to the details. He’s lost in the sound of his _voice_. After some initial stammering and awkwardness, BazeCooks grows more confident, and Chirrut can tell just from listening to his vowels that he’s a local, probably from the southern part of the city. 

When it’s over, Chirrut just sits in stunned silence for a few minutes. Then he pulls up his voice-to-text web client and leaves a comment, carefully checking that he’s logged in under his pseudonym. 

_@bazecooks I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the end of your video. I know it’s very unusual for you to do this kind of thing, and not only was it helpful, but it was a delight to hear your voice and get to know you a little better. I will feel more confident attempting this recipe now. Thank you. -thechizen1_

A few hours later, he’s putting away his newly-delivered groceries when he receives a voice text from Bodhi. 

“Did you hear the new video from Baze? He is so sweet! That was all because of you, wasn’t it? I told you he was adorable!” 

Chirrut presses his lips together, struggling not to smile, but he can’t help it. He sets his phone on the counter and sends a response, idly thumbing the touch-writing on a package of dried beans. “It was very sweet of him, yes. His voice isn’t how I imagined it would be.”

Another text comes in, this one just typed out—Bodhi must be headed to class. His phone reads it out for him: _If you ever wanna know how cute he really is, all you have to do is ask… I’ll describe him for you. ;)_

“Incorrigible,” he announces aloud. 

“I’m sorry,” says his phone, “I didn’t quite catch that.” 

Chirrut snorts and puts the mic on mute. 

//

“Chirrut, I have fantastic news.”

Chirrut grunts to let Bodhi know he’s listening, but doesn’t respond. He’s busy doing the prep for his next video, and he’s very carefully memorizing the layout of his ingredients while Bodhi sets up the camera on its tripod on the other side of the kitchen. 

“Kay gave me the shortlist of the people who signed up to take your cooking class.”

“Mmhmmm.” He’s got the list too, somewhere, floating around in his email. He hasn’t had a chance to read it over. 

“It filled up quick,” Bodhi says. Chirrut is only listening with half an ear, but then he adds, “I think BazeCooks is on the list,” and suddenly he’s paying attention. 

“ _What_?”

Bodhi laughs delightedly. “I knew you’d like that! I mean, it might not be him, but the name is Baze Malbus and he lists himself as an _amateur home cook_ , so…”

Chirrut is suddenly vibrating with excitement and he doesn’t know why. He clears his throat and tries to temper his expression. “Right. Well, I suppose we’ll see. Or _you_ will see, and confirm for me.” As if he won’t know him the moment he hears his voice.

 _Nice hands_ , he thinks, remembering Bodhi’s consensus. Chirrut wonders what that means, but he’s too proud to ask for details. Instead he turns back to his ingredients, and Bodhi follows his lead. Despite the silence, there is a new energy in the kitchen, an effervescent excitement that Chirrut is a little ashamed to own. He’s too old for this nonsense. Clearly, Bodhi’s irrepressible energy has infected him. 

The cooking class is the first of its kind, hosted by the college to try and garner interest in its new culinary programs. It’s been a few years since Chirrut taught there full-time, but the rhythm of it comes back to him easily, like muscle memory. He stands at the front of the room behind his station, running one hand idly over the edge of the wooden counter where his knives are arrayed. Sushi tonight, from scratch. He keeps one ear trained on the room as it fills—only twelve spots were offered to start, easily managed—and pretends he isn’t waiting for one voice in particular to make itself known. 

Bodhi, who has been recruited to film this “live show” version of his usual youtube videos, drifts into orbit with a meaningful _harrumph_ in his throat. Chirrut smiles and cocks his head toward him. “Something amiss, Mr. Rook?”

“Oh, no. Everyone’s here, we’re just waiting on the clock.” Bodhi falls quiet, but Chirrut can hear the soft _shuf-shuf_ of his shoes as he bounces on his heels. “I was right, by the way.”

“Right about what?”

“It _is_ him. And he’s even more handsome in person.”

Chirrut scoffs and goes back to his counting. He is determined not to ask what the man looks like—it doesn’t matter to him, not really. What does he care for looks? 

In spite of his stubborn refusal to press for details, he’s on high alert for the first half of the demonstration. Every time someone asks a question, he’s braced for the familiar sound of that voice, low and rumbling like honeyed gravel—but no questions are forthcoming, not from BazeCooks, anyway. Then the next hour is spent drifting between tables, checking up on people as they attempt their own sushi rolls. It’s a very tactile craft, which is why Chirrut chose it for the demonstration—even through his thin plastic gloves, he can feel his students’ work, follow the awkward dance of their hands as they grow more comfortable with the process. 

He comes to the back of the room last. There are two people at the cooking station—a father-daughter pair, according to his seating chart—and the young woman is laughing as he approaches, voice warm with gentle mockery. 

“No, Dad, you’re smushing it. You have to be gentle.”

“Like this?” comes the response. The hair on the back of Chirrut’s neck stands on end and he mentally calms himself. _It’s him._

“Still no. Look, Chef Imwe is here to help you.”

“No one can help me,” Baze grumbles. “My hands are too big.”

“Nonsense,” Chirrut says warmly, plastering on his most polite ‘professor face,’ as Bodhi calls it. “It just takes practice. Real technique can take years to perfect—as long as it sticks together and looks reasonably edible, you’ll be fine.” He stands on the opposite side of the table and holds out his hands, palms down, in the general direction of that improbably low voice. “May I?”

“Yeah, of course.” After a beat of silence, Chirrut feels a touch on the palm of one hand, tentative. He smiles and returns the light grip, like a strange, ancient greeting, and _heavens, his hands are enormous!_

“Just do what you were doing before,” he says, as evenly as he can. “And I’ll correct you as we go.”

His hands may be huge, but they move gently, like he’s afraid of spooking Chirrut away. Chirrut has always found it easier to layer sushi at a quick pace, letting momentum do most of the work, but he makes himself slow down for this, following the movements and making adjustments or suggestions where necessary. He stands back after a bit and touches the finished product with a light hand. 

“Very good,” he praises. “You’re a quick learner, ah…?”

“Oh, I’m Baze. Baze Malbus,” the giant rumbles—and he must be a giant, with a voice like that, broad-chested and pitched from somewhere several inches above Chirrut’s earline. 

Chirrut can’t resist. “Baze? Of BazeCooks fame?”

“Ha! See, Dad?” his daughter crows. He can hear the slight _whump_ as she elbows him or perhaps delivers a friendly smack to his back. _He sounds… solid._ Chirrut tries not to blush. “I told you you were famous!”

“I’m not _famous_ , Jyn, don’t be ridiculous,” Baze mutters, but he sounds quietly pleased. “I didn’t really expect to be noticed, by you of all people.”

“Of all people?” Chirrut echoes, amused.

“Shit—that’s not, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” He waves off his stammering, utterly unconcerned. _Adorable_. “Perhaps this comes as a surprise to you, but the auditory experience of your videos is a feast in its own right. I make it a little game, trying to deduce your movements and ingredients from the sounds alone.”

“You… watch my videos?” Baze says after a moment, sounding shocked. “I mean—you _listen_ to them?”

“Of course. I’ve heard every one at least twice, I’m sure. I hope that isn’t alarming to you?”

“Alarm—? No, of course not! It’s an honor, truly.” His voice trails off into thought, and Chirrut wonders if he’s made the connection. But before he can prod around the secret of his internet identity, Bodhi materializes to indicate someone who needs his help, and Chirrut bows off with a grimace of apology. _I can’t be the only blind person who enjoys ambient cooking videos_ , he tells himself. He’s not disappointed that Baze didn’t make the connection—not in the least. 

It takes another generous half-hour to wrap up the demonstration and send everyone off with their haphazard sushi kits, and when the room has emptied out Chirrut flops into a chair behind his station with a sigh. 

The door sifts open on well-oiled hinges, and familiar voice rumbles, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought everyone had gone.”

Chirrut sits up in a hurry, putting on his ‘polite company’ face. “That’s quite all right. Can I help you with something?”

There’s an awkward pause. “I think I lost my phone, actually.”

“Ah! Well, I would offer to help look, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help in that case.” He grins easily, encouraging Baze to laugh at his joke, and a beat later there’s a coarse-grained chuckle from the other side of the room. 

“Right. Well, I’ll just be a moment, it can’t have gone far. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Chirrut waves a hand. “It’s fine. I was just having a bit of a sit-down. It’s been awhile since I did this sort of thing.”

A chair scrapes nearby, ostensibly so that Baze can peer under it. “This sort of thing?”

“Instruction. I was a professor for several years, but didn’t feel inclined to go for my tenure, so I branched out on my own.” He gives a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I forgot how tiring it is, being in front of people and telling them to do things.”

“I thought you were excellent,” Baze says quietly. A table creaks as he leans his weight against it, settling in. Chirrut wonders if he’s found his phone. “I don’t know how you do it—I can’t bear to speak in front of crowds, even small ones like this.”

“It takes practice. I’m glad to hear you say it went all right, I confess I was a bit nervous.” He smiles. “Talking to a camera is much simpler, as I’m sure you’re aware. Although, forgive me, you don’t speak very often in your videos, do you? Except for recently.”

There’s a brief stretch of silence that’s tinged with surprise. “You were being serious, then.”

“About what?”

“Listening to my videos.”

“Of course I was. Did you doubt it?”

“No! Well, maybe a little.” Pause. “It just seems strange that…”

Chirrut cocks his head in question. Baze seems like an intelligent man—it seems only natural that he would put two and two together. But whether he has the gumption to mention it is another matter. Some people are a little… odd about internet celebrity. 

“You’re not the only person with a… a visual impairment who watches my videos,” Baze says at last. “I just thought that was a funny coincidence.”

Chirrut is certain that he _isn’t_ the only one, in fact, but it’s too perfect a lead-in to ignore. “Do you mean _thechizen1_? That’s my anonymous internet handle, actually. It’s just easier to go under the radar most of the time.”

Baze inhales. “That was _you_?”

“I’m afraid so. I really do appreciate your narration, you know. The recipes make a lot more sense when you describe your methods at the end—although I can’t quite nail your zhajiang mian. Something always seems to elude me, even though the recipe itself is simple.”

Baze makes a low, pleased sound in his throat. “It’s the noodles. My grandmother had a special way of making them.”

“The doing of it is a family secret, I suppose,” Chirrut sighs, infusing a calculated amount of wistfulness into his voice. His reward is a low, rumbling laugh that suffuses him with warmth all the way down to his toes. 

“A family tradition, perhaps, but not a secret. Nainai didn’t believe in keeping the tricks of the trade to herself.” Baze comes a little closer, evidenced by the scuff of his shoes and the volume of his voice as he adds, “I’ll make them for you sometime. Show you how to do it properly.”

Chirrut smiles in what he hopes is Baze’s precise direction. “I would like that very much.” A thought strikes him. “Did you find your phone? Perhaps we can trade numbers. We internet chefs must stick together, you know. It’s a very cutthroat world.”

Baze snorts, but he accepts Chirrut’s phone without qualm, using it to text his own after inputting his number. It’s unclear whether he found it, or whether he had it on his person all along, and was just using it as an excuse to talk to Chirrut further. Chirrut hardly cares either way. “Consider this a standing invitation to dinner,” Baze says when he passes the phone back. “I moonlight as a mechanic during the day, but my evenings are almost always free.”

 _A mechanic_ , Chirrut thinks to himself, intrigued. That explains the callouses he feels when they shake hands. “A man of many talents,” he murmurs, and is delighted to find that he can practically hear Baze blush. Or perhaps that’s just the warmth radiating off him from how close they stand. “I look forward to being educated.”

The door swings open suddenly, startling them both—a soft draft touches Chirrut’s face as Baze puts some distance between them. They must have been standing even closer than he’d realized. 

“Dad? Did you find your phone?”

“Just did,” Baze says gruffly. “I’m coming.”

“Don’t forget you promised me dinner!” Chirrut says cheerfully as Baze makes for the door. There’s a bit of a mild commotion at the door, and then Baze and his daughter are gone and Bodhi’s distinctive, lopsided gait comes traipsing across the floor to him. 

“ _What_ ,” Bodhi exclaims, “was _that_?”

“That was none of your business, child,” Chirrut replies immediately, even though he’s grinning fit to burst. He allows himself to entertain a brief fantasy of sitting in Baze’s kitchen, listening to him cook in person, to his soft, velvety voice describing everything in excruciating detail, and a shiver of delight runs up his spine. 

“You’re no fun,” Bodhi sighs as he begins to break down the camera equipment. “Will you at least bring me leftovers when he seduces you with his amazing cooking?”

 _Not a chance in hell_ , Chirrut thinks, not unkindly. He pats him on the back and lies, “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> fyi the "honeyed gravel" line definitely comes from another fic but I can't remember which one right now, sorry! If it's yours, or if it's familiar, let me know! And Baze promising to make zhajiang mian comes straight outta the ragethirst chat last night (thnx jordan).


End file.
